"Where you going?"

Peter's breathing sped up. This was what his brain had been yelling at him about for the past five minutes. He had just gotten out of school when a slight thrumming started in his head. It had quickly increased from that to a dull screeching, chairs being dragged across the floor, to an unbearable trill, nails on a blackboard. He started walking faster.

"What's the rush, buddy?" He could hear the three, no five, guys behind him. He knew the voice. He didn't turn around, he didn't stop.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder just as the screeching in his head crescendoed and he put a hand up to his head to keep it together. He let himself be turned around.

"You hurt my feelings, man," the one who grabbed him said, "leaving so quickly, you make us think you don't like us." The others filed in around him. He knew these boys, seniors. They'd all had run-ins with them before. It usually ended with less money in his pocket and a few bruises. But it still was something he'd rather avoid.

"I-I don't want any trouble," he said, cursing the damn stutter he had.

"You won't get any," the boy said, patting Peter's cheek just a little too hard, "just give us some of that internship money you've been making. We all aren't as lucky as you, Parker."

"I don't make any money, it-it isn't paid."

"Bullshit, Parker." Peter felt himself slam against the wall.

"I swear, I don't," his voice breaking.

"Then give us whatever you have."

"I got nothing. I swear."

A swift punch to his gut made Peter double over and cough. Hands pushed him down. Feet assailed him from all around.

An icepick jammed through his temples. His instincts told him to fight back. He was Spiderman, he could flatten these guys in an instant. But he couldn't before, so he can't now.

So he just takes it. Takes it as a foot connects to his nose and warm blood flows down his face. Takes it as he feels one of his ribs take the brunt of a stomp. Takes it as hands pick him up and fists connect to the side of his head.

When it is all said and done Peter lies there for a while. Then he slowly pulls himself up and starts to walk home. The first few minutes are agony and he is sure he has at least one, if not more, broken ribs. But, with each footfall, it becomes easier to breath, until he is no longer wheezing. He touches his face, his nose and eye still tender, and only sees dried blood on his fingers.

He reaches the door. He knows his face will take a few days to heal, depending on the damage. He has found that only his more dire injuries heal fast, anything external and shallow heals in real time. His shoulders lift and lower with the heavy sigh. He won't be able to hide this from May.

He wants to, desperately. He doesn't want her to worry, like she always does. He can't bear to see her face like he has so many times before. Worry, grief, pity, flitting across her face, creating lines that shouldn't be there.

His fists clench. Just, for once, he'd like to be able to do something about it. He could. But he can't. He can't fight back, he can't prevent it. Unclenching, Peter takes the doorknob. He just has to take it.